In The Words of Her Son
by La Sorelli
Summary: Charles de Chagny attends his beloved mother Christine's funeral and is heartbroken by her death. But when the family comes across her old diaries Charles discovers a great secret his mother kept from him her entire life. ALW/Kay


Chapter One

Raining Roses

It was a Freudian philosophy which suggested that the first woman a man ever fell in love with is his mother. Not romantically of course, unless we are pertaining to Oedipus Rex, but in a respectful, affectionate way. I could safely state that I had followed this philosophy. My mother had been my favorite, most loved family member. She was my comfort, my counsel, and my dearest friend. She had been so since before I can even remember. She and I had something special together, something very strong. It was different than her relationships with my other siblings, though she loved them just as dearly.

I'd shared a long and happy life with my mother. When I was born she was very young, only eighteen. I'd seen her when she was young and beautiful, something not many children did. And I'd seen her grow older, but never less beautiful. She was always beautiful. She was full of love, beauty, and music until the end of her life.

In the spring of 1917, my mother passed away. She was taken by a fast spreading cancer in her lungs. It took her in three months. I remember standing over her grave, as the casket was lowered into the ground. It was one of the most agonizing moments I had ever experienced. My wife Adrienne, whom was the woman I loved most in the world next to my mother and sisters, clutched my arm and sobbed under her black veil. She had loved my mother too, as if they were true, blood relatives rather than in-laws. I held a black umbrella over us. It had begun to rain at the beginning of the committal, as if the weather was accosting itself to our situation.

Through the shower of water I saw the faces of my family; my brother Laurent, my two sisters, Martine and Isabelle, their spouses; my brothers and sisters in-law, their children; my nieces and nephews, and lastly the face of my father. Laurent held his own black umbrella over my father who sat feebly and helplessly in wheelchair, letting himself become soaked by the rain for the sake of my father's comfort. I was disturbed by how small and weak my father looked. He had been ill and crippled for many months, but in that moment he looked near death. His once laughing, vibrant grey eyes were sunken into withering flesh in sorrow. Grief illustrated his entire body.

Sounds of rain, the crying of women, and the voice of the priest buzzed around me dully. The priest was reading a long epitaph, written eloquently by Laurent, the poet laureate of the Chagny family. But no matter how beautiful the words were they did not suffice the fact that our beloved mother was dead. I was selfish. I wanted her to be there with us. This wasn't supposed to be us, it was always us mourning over someone else's dead relative, us bearing someone else condolence, us being a shoulder to cry on…never the other way around.

That morning my sisters had dressed maman in her finest to be buried in. They had done a wonderful job. Maman looked beautiful, even when she was dead. They'd placed a string of diamonds around her neck. I did not recognize them until Martine reminded me.

"Remember, you found them in a drawer, stacked up in a little box. You asked papa if you could have them made up into a necklace for maman's birthday. She cried when you gave it to her."

Indeed I did remember that day. I was ten years old, enthusiastic about everything, and always eager to please my mother. Papa let me withdraw money from my account to take the diamonds to a jeweler. I stared at it the whole way home. Papa kept looking over at me to make sure I was being careful. I found an old box at home, and I placed the necklace carefully inside with a small note I had written. The morning of her birthday at breakfast, I placed the box next to her silverware. When reaching for her knife, her fingers brushed the box and she picked it up with curiosity.

"Who could this be from?" she had asked, pretending she didn't notice my excited grin from across the table. I'll never forget her face when she opened that box, saw the necklace, and read the note. She placed her hand to her heart as she read and tears spilled out of her eyes and down her cheeks. Being young, I immediately suspected I had done something bad to make her cry. I rushed over to her side and grabbed her arm.

"I'm sorry maman! I didn't mean to make you upset!" I apologized frantically.

"Upset?" she looked at me in shock, tears still flowing. "My darling…how can you say such a thing? This is the most wonderful gift anyone's ever given me!"

"You're not sad then?" I asked in relief.

"Not at all!" she laughed through her tears. "My dearest Charles…" she cupped my face with one of her hands. "Thank you so much."

"Happy birthday maman." I smiled and kissed her cheeks without another word.

My life was full of memories like these. I wanted to swim in them, drown in them…forget everything else. But reality called for me, as it always did. When I was rudely forced back into the present I noticed that people were moving around and whispering. The priest no longer spoke. Then one by one, came the flowers. They fell from the hands of the mourners into the grave and landed on top of the coffin's black lid. I noticed almost instantly that they were all roses, of every shape, every size, and every color imaginable. Someone must have let on about maman's love of roses.

"Lilly," I heard Adrienne whisper to my thirteen-year-old daughter. "Why don't you throw in our rose for grandmamma?" she turned to me and I remembered the rose in my coat pocket. I brandished from my black overcoat a blood red bloom, perfectly sized and perfectly tended to. I handed it to my lovely daughter, whose green eyes sparkled with tears as she took it by the stem in her gloved hand. Sniffling, she leaned forward and let the rose fall from her fingers and into the ground.

"Papa, they all brought roses." My son Philippe said in awe. "How did they know?"

"I don't know." I told him. "But I'm very glad they did."

Dozens of roses joined our red one, cascading downwards and gracefully hitting the coffin surface. I saw my father, with great effort, throw in a white bloom. He stared down at it as it was covered with the flowers of everyone else. The roses fell at such a speed and in such abundance I wondered if they'd fill up the whole grave.

The falling of roses ended all too quickly, and the diggers began to shovel in dirt quickly. The beautiful flowers were splattered with mud. We stayed until we could no longer see the roses. On our way to the carriage Lilly said quietly to Adrienne a statement I have never forgotten.

"It was beautiful maman; it looked like it was raining roses."

We would always say from then on, that grandmamma died on the day the sky rained roses.


End file.
